At the Hand of the Steward
by Etharei
Summary: An AU first-person POV on a decision made by Denethor II long before the War of the Ring


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Disclaimer: This work is based on the writings of JRR Tolkein, and is therefore his. I do not own any of the characters, places, or even the world of Middle-Earth, and am not making any money off the writing and/or posting of this work. 

Author's Note:_  
POV in first-person of Denethor II, son of Ecthelion II, the last Ruling Steward of Gondor. Written in response to the **Olympics Lore Event** hosted by Minas Tirith in the LOTR Fanatics Plaza (). Submitted by yours truly, part of the Gondorian Team._

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At the Hand of the Steward  
By Etharei

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"If you knew you were going to be the last ruling Steward of Gondor, what sort of legacy would you leave to the line of the Stewards?"

I looked on the high table, whose origins undoubtedly dated back to the days of Numenore; none now knew of what substance it made of, for it feels like stone yet is not a kind found anywhere in the Middle-Earth. Perhaps it had been a gift of the Elves, and may have been wrought by Aule himself in time forgotten. Once I would spend days contemplating the table; now the harsh reality of life has caught up with me, and I care not for the table but for what rests upon it.

For nestled on a special holding-brace in the exact center of the table is a dark sphere. Dark, yet one can never be sure of what colour it is. Perhaps this was the intent of the creators, for the eye is drawn into the sphere like a moth to the brightest of flames. My own eye is drawn to it, though I know better than any other moth that I will surely get burnt if I fly too close. 

Or would I?

I shake my head. Foolishness, to meddle in what I do not understand. Yet, I cannot help but think: do I not know better than any of my Race the perils of this treasure? Do I not have the right to use it? The blood of Numenore is in my veins; do I not have the strength of will to use this perilous thing?

My hand unconciously reaches out for it, but I draw back. Yet I am growing ever more convinced of my folly, of being afraid of a mere object, ancient though it is, whilst those around me perish in this useless war. And the inevitable question: could I have saved Father, if I had taken up the Stone? 

My hand reaches out again, and this time my other hand had to push it down onto the cool table. In my mind I saw my people dying, the great City of men slowly decaying year after year. The King would not come. The Stewards have held their posts faithully, but what if our faith had been misplaced? I had long since given up the hope that some forgotten heir of Elendil would return to take the Sceptre. The blood of Numenor granted me a special strain of foresight at times, and by this I knew deep in my heart that the reign of the Stewards was ending. And as the King was unlikely to return, it must mean that in time even the White City can fall.

This time I was both barely aware of my hand moving, yet painfully concious of every twitch of muscle. There was no longer any reason left for not taking the Stone, and all the reasons why I should just built up in my mind. I see my father, living to a ripe old age yet despairing of his City's future; I see my beloved Fanduilas, with my two sons, who spent their childhood learning to kill; I saw Mithrandir, felt my anger and suspicion as if he was with me in that room; and finally I beheld Thorongil, that strange warrior out of the North, who came and was loved by all that I loved, only to leave without a trace one day. Even after all the years, I could still feel the bitterness and jealousy burn in my heart at his memory.

Take the Stone, a voice seemed to croon to me. Take it, and have a power over the lands your fathers passed to you such as no other Steward has had before.

I close my eyes. Once I touch it, touch the dreaded Stone, I knew I could never turn back from it. All the guilt, loss, and pain of my life flooded through me then, in that lonely chamber above the City. My eyes looked towards Gondor, that I loved. I would do this for her, not for me. I would risk my life for her, as I had sworn.

Taking a deep breath, I closed my eyes.

I stepped out of that chamber filled with ancient secrets, locked the door, and never saw the Palantir of Anor again.


End file.
